In Canada, when someone honks at me, I assume they’re impatient and mostly just ignore them. Here, when someone honks at me, I assume the worst and my immediate thought is, “What did I do wrong?”

Ran a bunch of errands this morning – after the garden centre, the ATM, the grocery store, & the petrol station, I headed home. I was at a roundabout waiting to turn right (meaning I would be driving 3/4 of the way around the circle, clockwise) when the guy sort of behind, sort of beside me honked. Immediate thought: “Oh shoot, I must have done something wrong.”

I drove home from there, pondering, then fuming (the other guy had been turning left, so was no longer anywhere to be seen). I pondered about my mistake – this was a roundabout I’ve used literally dozens of times – how did I screw up? Came to the conclusion that I hadn’t, leading to the fuming. I’ve mentioned that here (or at least in Orkney), people trust when they see someone indicating, and will just drive into the traffic, assuming the other person will be turning as indicated. I can’t do that – I need to see the car start to turn as promised. Well, there was a car coming towards us through the roundabout, indicating that they were going to take the exit, so I could have gone. But I waited – a nanosecond at most – until they started to turn. Either way, the guy behind/beside me was in no way being inconvenienced by that nanosecond pause – he could have turned left any time he wanted. Hence the fuming. Dammit, he was wrong, I wasn’t.

Drove home in a funk. Got out of the car. Ah – my gas door was open, and the cap dangling from it.

Oops. Thank you, sir.

Here’s the difference between my street in Canada and my street in Scotland. In Canada, when I hear a tinny version of La Cucaracha outside, I know the ice cream truck has arrived, and kids will run out their front doors and line up to buy a popsicle or an ice cream cone. Here, every Thursday afternoon, when I hear a loud honking out on the street, I know the fish van has arrived, and senior citizens will come out of their front doors and queue up to buy haddock, or fish cakes, or tatties. We have a fish van.

This guy drives 2+ hours every week from the east coast and stops in neighbourhoods all over Lanarkshire, selling fish as well as baked goods and some produce. Today I bought haddock for this evening (I will bread it and serve it with grilled tomatoes and a cabbage slaw), smoked haddock for tomorrow (I will make Cullen Skink), and fish cakes for the the freezer.

In Orkney I lived less than a seven minute walk from the sea, but had to drive to buy my seafood. Here I live 40+ minute drive from the ocean, but the fish come to my front door.

There is a long time resident of this street a couple of doors down from me and it’s my understanding is that she has lost (or is losing) her eyesight. Scotland’s home care programs are amazing, and she has carers come in four times a day to help her with her daily activities and meals. I don’t know if her husband lives with her, or is even still alive, but I do see a couple of the neighbours pop in to visit her from time to time. I spend a lot of time at the window facing her front drive & walkway, so I see all the comings and goings. To be clear, it’s the kitchen window where I cook, wash, clean up, etc – I’m not peering out a window all day from behind net curtains, like my Mum’s neighbours in Bellshill did in the 40’s & 50’s (nothing went on up the North Road that the Misses Hamilton didn’t know about, believe me). No, it’s just the way the house is designed and the street is laid out – I see it all.

Every time I see the carers coming/going I get thinking about how we care for the elderly – either here or back home. I think it’s great that this lady is able to stay in her own home (and keep in mind, I am doing all this speculating without knowing a thing about this individual or her circumstances – I just can’t stop thinking about the bigger picture). But is it the best thing? I assume that for most of the day, she is alone in that house, as opposed to being in a community care facility where she would be interacting with other people. Granted, maybe she doesn’t want to interact with others, or leave the surroundings she is most familiar with. But is she lonelier than she need be?

Staying in your own home seems to be so important to many elderly people – continued independence? costs? familiarity with surroundings? limited services available? – but I often wonder if that wish is based purely on emotion. I remember my aunt and uncle talking about how, once she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she would be staying in their home; she would not be going into care, as there were so many in-home services available here in Scotland. Which was terrific to hear about Scotland (my cousin tells me it’s much better up here than down in England – Alba gu bràth!). And yet I remember when my Mum moved out of their apartment into Glendale Crossing, her days became much more active and interesting – she had people to watch, and things going on around her – my sisters and I believe she was truly happier then. I’m not criticizing Ian & Margaret, or my Mum & Dad; nor am I saying one decision is better than another; we do what’s right at the time, based on our own circumstances and the information at hand.

And I do get that many senior care facilities are substandard. CFUW Milton has been very active over the last few years in lobbying the Ford government to bring elder care up to acceptable levels. And I know nothing of what’s available in Lanarkshire for the elderly or infirm. I just can’t help it – every time I see the carers go in & out, I get thinking about it all over again.

I have made one decision: now that I’m settled here, I’m going to ask a couple of the neighbours if they think this lady might enjoy a periodic visit from a gentle, friendly dog. Scout can earn her keep on this street.

Way back in the autumn when my cousin and I started talking about my moving in here for the last several months of my stay in Scotland, we discussed the fact that Ian & Margaret had been here for 50+ years, latterly in poorer health. It meant the the house was pretty full – full of old knickknacks, dated pictures, boxes upon boxes of photos, and cleaning supplies (dear God, the cleaning supplies). Don’t get me wrong; my aunt & uncle weren’t hoarders by any stretch of the imagination; their house didn’t feel cluttered at all, more cosy and maybe a titch crowded. But still a lot of stuff.

My cousin wanted to clear out the junk and update the rooms, and ideally make this into their second home (they live in the south of England), and possibly even rent it out down the road. I could be on hand for whatever contractor work needed doing, replace the old-person furniture with my more modern things, and over time go through cupboards, closets, cabinets, the loft, and the garage and get rid of the excess stuff. Viv hates purging; I love it.

But then the flood and Viv’s amazing contractor – so instead of a cosy, dark, and dated house, I’ve moved into a modern, light, airy, and mostly empty cottage. But there’s still the cupboards, and the closets, and the cabinets. And the loft and the garage. I spent the first few weeks getting settled, moving things around, and sorting out the main living areas. But there are still the cupboards, etc, etc, etc . . .

So this week I started on them. Over the last three days I’ve emptied out the bedroom closets, dusted, wiped, and vacuumed them, and started sorting stuff. I’m feeling quite a sense of accomplishment. My bedroom is spotless (well, by my standards), the guest room is clean, empty, and organised, and the closet clean and sorted. No clutter: only items that should be kept.

The back room is still a work in progress; it had been Uncle Ian’s office until he retired, then his den, and since his death the recipient of all things that needed ‘shoved away’ – stuff. But things are moving fairly quickly – I anticipate being done with the ‘main floor’ by the end of May. Then the loft. And the garage.

And the garden – oh dear.

In an earlier post shortly after arriving in Scotland I talked about the ‘Idiot Tax’. A comedian had shared that anytime someone spent money foolishly, (e.g. came home with pickling salt when they meant to buy pickling spice, or paid £35 on a locally-made toque because they thought they hadn’t packed any hats from home) – anytime something like that happened, this comic’s FIL said that it was within this year’s Idiot Tax and it was okay to forgive yourself for it (the Idiot Tax cap, in this guy’s opinion, seemed to be around £1,000). *I don’t think the idea was that it was okay to fritter away £1,000 p.a., but rather that: shite happens, learn from your mistake, and move on. It helped the day I spent £8 on smoked scallops only to find I don’t like smoked scallops and I had to bin them because Scout didn’t like them either. Idiot Tax, move on.

Well, it’s started again: last week I bought tea at Tesco, only to remember Viv had shown me where the massive, unopened, Costco-sized package of tea was in the cupboard. Then I went to B&M (sort of HomeSense meets Walmart, but oh so tidy) and bought a large packet of Command Hook hangers only to find I already had tons of them from my last two moves (those things are bloody expensive and I can’t return them as I’d opened the package). Idiot Tax, move on.

But this is the one that has me in a lather: I sat down this morning to change my address on a bunch of forms and accounts. First one: Drivers Licence. Government websites here are so easy to follow – I brought up the form and started typing away. Entered my Current DL#, UK Passport #, Mother’s maiden name (I didn’t remember that from last time, but easy to forget, okay), and £49 fee. Didn’t remember that from last time either, but fair enough, so I paid it. It was about ten seconds after I hit Submit that I realized: this wasn’t a government site; this was an online service for immigrants – I had just clicked on the top site that had appeared when I googled DL change of address; the gov’t site was a few lines below. This service will address your paperwork for you for a fee, I guess for people new to the UK and unsure of how to navigate all the protocols. Dammit. I’ve just given an online company a ton of personal data, plus £. Dammit. I’m having a hard time shaking this one off – the company seems legit and actually has a decent user-rating, but. . . Dammit.

EDIT 29 hours later: I have just received an email from the online company, thanking me for my application and advising me that I only have one thing left to do – go to the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency (DVLA)’s website and complete the change of address form and follow the instructions there. Link provided. I have just paid £49 to have them tell me to fill out the government form I had intended to complete when I started all this. Idiot Tax, move on.

We have a duck pond. With ducks. And geese.

The country walks around this house are lovely. Some go for miles down the Clyde Valley, through villages like Nemphlar, Tillietudlem, Boghead, and Kilncadzow. The last is pronounced ‘Kil-KAY-gee’. Really, it is. (Aren’t the Scots fun?)

There are shorter, closer walks along fields with rabbits and deer, or through woods with red squirrels, and we have a duck pond just up the road with mallards, gadwalls, and greylag geese. We often stop the car at the pond for a quick once around the pond after running errands. This morning we had to wait in the car for a few minutes until the family of geese had stepped away from the driver’s side doors. (Have I ever mentioned that I am afraid of large birds?)

My intention had always been to spend the second day of my road trip to the Lake District checking out the actual lakes, like Coniston Water and Lake Windermere, and maybe even coming back to the region later in the summer. But after yesterday’s drive through the backroads dealing with blind corners, construction, and, worst of all, cyclists, I had pretty much decided against Day Two of white-knuckle driving. It was a pity, because this area really is every bit as beautiful as its reputation promised.

I was waffling back and forth on this: it was a Saturday, so cyclists would be worse; but better to do this now, early in the season; but those roads were even worse that the roads in the highlands; but you’re already here, for heaven’s sake; and so on, and so on. Finally I decided: (a) I won’t be coming back here any time soon; (b) what if I stuck to the wider, smoother roads, and even back-tracked at one point to avoid the narrower lanes? I told Scout we were going for it (she raised her head from the car seat and gave me a look), and we got off the motorway and headed west toward Windermere.

I was going to miss Coniston Water, my real reason for this trip. You see, I have been a huge fan of the children’s book series Swallows and Amazons since I was a little girl. I still re-read them to this day. And most of them take place on a fictional lake based on Coniston Water. But to get to Coniston meant backroads. On a Saturday. In May. So no go. Then I saw the sign for the village, and next thing I knew I was on a single lane road, driving past the most beautiful, quiet, blue water. Surprisingly, there was no one else on this road; I drove at a leisurely pace, and while I couldn’t park anywhere (the reason the road was empty was that everyone had left their homes early and taken all the parking spots along the roadside), I got to see the lake, the farms, the fells, and even ‘Wild Cat Island’. Bucket List – tick.

Granted, once I got past the village and back on wider roads, the entire world was out in full force. Traffic was backed up for miles, luckily for me in the opposite direction. It reminded me of Grand Bend on a long weekend. I had planned on lunch in one of the villages, but took one look at the cars, cyclists, and pedestrians, and decided that the Swallows & Amazons would have to do without me this year. Back home to Scotland we went.

But I am glad I got to see this region; now when I re-read the books, the scenery will be more vivid in my mind’s eye.

Dara Ó Briain is probably my favourite stand-up comedian. Well, second to Bob Newhart, of course. He tours mainly the UK, Scandinavia, and Australia, so I’d only ever seen him on YouTube. But a few years ago he was doing a North American tour, so I bought a ticket for his Toronto gig, March 30th, 2020. That’s March 30th 2020. So much for that. The show was postponed, then cancelled, then, when he finally returned to Canada, I had left for Scotland. Then this year he started back at UK venues, and when I heard there was a show mid-May in Blackburn, about 2 1/2 hours south of my new home, well, I bought a ticket and planned a 2-day road trip.

The road trip was going to take me through the Lake District, considered to be some of the most beautiful countryside in all of Great Britain (think Beatrix Potter, Wordsworth). I checked out some of the towns and villages to visit in that region and yesterday morning, with the promise of a few nice days of weather, we headed south. We left the motorway near Kendal, and started wending our way in & out, up & down, and all around beautiful lakes, spectacular hillsides, and rolling farmland.

There were a number of unusual sheep-sightings along the way (and this from someone who has lived in Orkney). The first was: as I was driving along one quiet country lane, a ewe was slamming her side against a stone wall. Just as I pulled up alongside, she succeeded in knocking over a bunch of stones, then led her twins and a couple of friends on a jail-break, out onto the road. This is a 60mph narrow country road, so I thought she was making a big mistake, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. I crept by them (getting quite the stink eye from the older sheep), and I drove on slowly, wondering what to do – I mean, I wasn’t going to stop the car in the middle of a blind curve, get out and start herding sheep on the lam. Around the next bend was a sign to a farm with a phone number on it, so I pulled over, called the number and left a very odd message on the answering machine. Here’s hoping that was enough.

Later on I saw a sheep sitting down. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but this sheep was sitting on her haunches. Not standing on all fours, or fully prone in the grass, but sitting all alone in a field with her bum on the ground, and her front legs straight (picture a full-sized dog, sitting waiting for a treat). I didn’t know they did that, so I looked it up. In all likelihood, she’s pregnant with twins. The things I learn.

The last odd sheep-sighting was a sheep bridge. The Lake District is a combination of farming and tourism, so in the nicer weather, the roads are very busy. So I guess some farmers have dealt with this by building what look like pedestrian walkways over the highways (think the pedestrian walkway between BMO Field & Ontario Place over the Lakeshore). I was sitting in stop & go traffic on the A590 as a procession of sheep casually, strolled across the highway, high overhead, on their own special bridge.

I did eventually make it to the show, which was excellent. I think Dara is hilarious, and the rest of the audience clearly felt the same, so it was a great evening. I had taken a cab from the hotel to the hall and back again, and each time the driver indicated he would prefer cash. No prob. And each time, the driver looked at the Scottish £10 note I had given him and questioned its validity. But both times they accepted my promise that it was legal tender (which it is – I just didn’t tell them they’d probably need to go to a bank branch to get it changed for ‘English’ currency, as most shops in England won’t accept Scottish notes).

A new boiler has been installed and I now have heat. Heat, glorious heat. And hot water. Imagine! This is living.

But I have a few bones to pick – certainly not with my cousins who have moved mountains to turn this house into a show home in time for me to move in, or even this house specifically, but with British houses in general. Brits just seem to make some things more complicated.

Let’s start with the laundry, shall we? I now have a wonderful, brand new, working beautifully, installed washing machine. Yay! Still don’t understand why I can’t just choose the length of time that I want, or the water temperature that I want, which bugs the hell out of me – I wonder if Brits even know what it’s like to have a washer that’s not fully programmed with a dozen different cycle/time/temp presets – but on the whole, I am happy, happy about my new washer. Of course, I’m not crazy about having baskets of clothing & linens sitting around the kitchen on laundry day (’cause that’s where they keep the washers here), and this time my dryer is out in the garage. Tucked in a back corner, looking 40+ years old, and just generally kinda creepy. The last two houses also had their laundry quirks; it just seems to come with the territory. The assumption here is that I will hang most of my laundry outside, which is fine, except for two things: (1) towels never dry as soft on the line as they do in a dryer; and (2) it’s Scotland so it rains six days out of seven. Viv told me there’s indoor racks somewhere in this house; I just haven’t found them yet, so am reduced to using the line and running outside as soon as I notice it’s raining (usually 10 minutes too late to save my knickers).

Heating. I have lived in three houses here: the first had slow-acting in-floor heating, the second had inadequate forced-air heating, and now I’ve got a boiler with radiators. So far, this is the coziest, yet most complex. As well as a central programmable thermostat (just like at home), each radiator has its own adjustable knob. I’m not sure how these two components work together – will have to get Viv to explain it to me. But the real treat? The day after the new boiler was installed, at 5:45 a.m. someone started playing ping pong in my front hall. I woke to the sounds of a ping pong ball being hit back and forth. Nooo, of course it wasn’t, that’s silly – it seems that radiators make all sorts of interesting noises as the pipes fill up; each morning is now a different ‘alarm clock’. As well as table tennis, I’ve been woken by what sounded like a bathtub overflowing onto a tile floor (I don’t have a bathtub), a clicking noise like a cicada (I thought it was my tinnitus at first), and this morning? the sound of a puppy with its head caught in the banister. Who needs a classic iphone ringtone at 6am when you have radiators? Oh, and it seems I have to learn how to bleed the radiators too. Uh huh. (But I’m warm. Did I mention that I’m warm?)

Why do Brits hate screens? Or are they afraid of them? Maybe no one has shown them how they work? This house, like my others (in fact, like any UK house I’ve been in) doesn’t have screens. What this house has huge picture windows that my uncle built so they could see Tinto Hill from any room; it has a stunning new front door, gunmetal blue with a frosted window; and it has these massive bi-fold glass doors onto the back garden (think French doors that open reeaal wide). But not a screen to be seen. Why? It’s not because they don’t have insects (believe me, Scotland has insects). Sunday morning was so nice I opened the living room windows. Next thing I knew, a wasp the size of a parakeet was swooping around my head. I miss screens.

Showers. Okay, these are the bane of my existence. I never have problems at home; whether at a friend’s house or in a hotel anywhere in North America, I can always work the shower. Not here. And I know it’s not just me; twenty years ago two friends & I needed a tutorial from the Pimlico hotel owner on showering, and my friends from Minnesota & Oxford concur – shower controls are all bonkers. Well, my cousin has installed a lovely new bathroom here: sleek new fixtures, grey tiled floor, and a lovely big walk-in shower stall with both a handheld wand and a rain-head shower – the room looks lovely. Now, think about this: when you get into the shower at home, you stand off to one side, turn the shower on, and wait maybe 10 seconds for the water to heat up before stepping into the stream. But we’re in new territory here; once the boiler was installed, it was time for my first shower in several days (don’t ask, a girl does what a girl has to do), so off I went. Okay. The shower controls are on the far wall, the water takes a good 30+ seconds or so to warm up, there are the two shower heads, and I have never used the controls. So I did the obvious: I took an umbrella into the shower with me for my maiden voyage as it were. We avoided scalds, ice-flows, and I figured out how to turn on only one shower head at a time. Ta-da!

I was up before 6 a.m. to take Scout for a good, long walk, because that was all she was going to get once the coverage started at 7:30. Settled into the Command Central corner of the couch, with tea, breakfast, remote control – all systems go. Then the plumbers arrived at 8:00 a.m. to install the new boiler in the loft. Oops, I’d forgotten about that.

I had made note of the main time frames for the day: the procession, the arrival, the investiture, the fly-over, etc.. And the head plumber told me his workers would be finishing around 2 p.m. Perfect – that was during a lull in the schedule – excellent. I settled back into my seat and for the most part I was able to ignore them and focus on the matter at hand – railing against the English for stealing our Stone of Destiny (don’t get me started), critiquing the women’s outfits, questioning why some of those people had even been invited, watching for Prince Harry, and mocking such items as the Golden Spurs, the Bracelets of Sincerity & Wisdom, and the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch – oh wait, that last item may not have been used at the Abbey. There was a lot of hammering coming from above, sort of a background staccato to the marching of the soldiers along the Mall.

And then, right before noon, just as we were getting to the big moment of the day, the actual investiture, I could sense that the workmen were wrapping up. Splendid, of course they were. And, much as I had anticipated, they wanted me to go up to the loft with them to see how everything worked. Really? Right now? A once every seventy years event is happening, and you want to show me a stop cock, and a relief valve, and whatever else is up there? They definitely did not have too much sympathy for me. For many Scots today was a non-event or worse. These guys were working on Coronation Saturday, their boss was off golfing, and at recent football matches and on the streets of Glasgow chants of “You can shove your coronation up your arse.” could be heard. So, no push back from me; I meekly followed them upstairs and listened to their instructions.

Anyhoo, all was resolved, and I was able to watch the bits I missed on BBC iPlayer later on. I made my quiche, drank some wine, and generally speaking, I’ve had a lovely day. I hope the King has too.